


or we could just have conversation

by theshoutingslytherin



Category: Mystery Skulls Animated
Genre: Arthur Kingsman Needs A Hug, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Mentions of canon typical violence, Phantom pain, Post-Hellbent, Suicidal Thoughts, and he gets one, but he’s in there, it’s just one line but to be safe im tagging it, not nearly enough of Mystery that we deserve, the boys work some shit out, we have been SLEEPING on fma tropes to put Arthur through
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 11:17:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16533575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshoutingslytherin/pseuds/theshoutingslytherin
Summary: “Your... arm,” Lewis finally says, drifting backward. In the past month, he’s stopped trying to act normal— standing on two feet like a human being was one of the first things to go. Floating, it seems, is more natural for him. “You— never told me how you lost it.”Arthur shoots him an incredulous glance. “It’s kind of a touchy subject,” he mutters. “Uh. I guess if you really wanna know, I can tell you.”In which sometimes the best place to work your shit out with a ghost happens to be in a dark kitchen, past witching hour, and during a thunderstorm.





	or we could just have conversation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rest_in_rip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rest_in_rip/gifts).



> HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY, SPARKS!
> 
> I started working on this before NaNoWriMo, so finishing it after meeting my word count goal yesterday was a refreshing change of pace. This can technically be read as both gen _and_ as pre-slash OT3– I tried to leave that a bit vague for everybody, but through my personal lens, I view it as the pre-slash.
> 
> Shout out to both Hita and my beta Jason for going over this with me and reassuring me that yes, this is ao3 worthy, and yes, Sparks will love it. Sparks, I hope you enjoy this fic as much as those two told me you would, and I hope your birthday is absolutely fantastic!

A flash.

_One. Two. Th—_

Even two and a half miles out, the approaching thundercloud has more similarities with a man-made bomb than a force of nature. Thunder crawls up the windows to rattle their foundations; forecast says they’ve got about ten minutes before it hits, and it’s bound to be a doozy.

Arthur’s got maybe five before he reaches his personal limit.

Goddamnit, he used to _like_ storms.

They’d warned him, of course— endless online seminars, counseling sessions, and chats with seasoned prosthetic veterans had prepared him for a life filled with chronic pain. Most days, it doesn’t bother him.

But when it _rains—_

Arthur hisses through his teeth. There’s a dull, pounding ache building where the metal port of his arm meets flesh; it comes and goes in waves, pushing against his nerves with tidal fluidity.

Curling his fingers around the port won’t help, but Arthur rubs at it anyway, pressing down where the worst of the ache originates. Metal, skin, metal, skin— there’s a point where the two meet, and that’s the area Arthur targets.

Weird, how the difference between warm, yielding flesh and cool metal can say so much. Like a physical record of time, a frozen clock preserving the exact moment and date that Lewis—

That he— that _Arthur—_

Something _splats_ against his window.

“Oh, fuck,” Arthur says, dropping his head into his hand. “No, no, please don’t rain—”

There’s an almost expectant, rolling pause where the world holds its breath. Then, with all the force and subtlety of a freight train, a massive wave of water slams against his window.

“Fuck,” Arthur says, stressing the last syllable into his open palm. _“Fuck.”_

Well.

With chances of sleep hitting rock bottom, he may as well get up and see if they have painkillers.

* * *

_Abandoned_ is a bleak word to describe a kitchen, but between the rain hammering against their roof and the wavering stove light he has to see by, it fits the definition. Without anyone else to witness his medicinal walk of shame, the apartment shrinks. Shadows folding on top of shadows; Arthur snags a clean glass from the dishwasher on his way to the medicine cabinet.

There’s a memory lurking on the outskirts of his mind, sharp and cracked around the edges. Back before— well, _before—_ rain meant hovering in the kitchen while Lewis ran the gamut of cooking, baking, and whatever else he could do to distract himself from the weather.

“I just don’t like it,” he’d said the first time Arthur asked. “It just— it makes me feel shitty, y’know?” A glance, aimed at the bowl on the counter. “But cooking— all that stuff helps.”

Rain seemed to mean more than just crappy weather, to Lewis; the paper-thin glint in his eyes warned Arthur not to pry.

So he’d snatched the handle of Lewis’s spatula instead, dancing around his yelp of protest.

_“Arthur—”_

“You need a taste tester, right?” Arthur also dodged the outstretched hand, angling the spatula so brownie batter didn’t gloop all over the floor. “C’mon, you’re really gonna make all this food and not let us eat it?”

“Arthur, I swear to _God—”_

“I’m told I make a good sous chef. Or one of those medieval guys who checks the food before anyone else eats it.” He’d swiped a finger against the rubber, taking a glob of dark, sweet chocolate with it. “Lemme just make sure this isn’t poisoned for you.”

Lewis’s eyes had threatened to bug out. “Arthur, _wait—”_

Sheer, brownie batter bliss. Arthur had grinned at him, unrepentant. “Glad to report this is poison free—” he’d started.

Which was when the chili kicked in.

“I told you,” Lewis had choked out as Arthur wheezed, clutching his burning throat. “Next time _ask,_ idiot.”

“I take it back! I take it back, that is _definitely poisoned—”_ Arthur coughed, lunging for a glass. Lewis had watched him go, helpless laughter bubbling out of him in fits and starts.

“You’re such a dumbass, you _know_ where I work—”

“Shut up!” But there’d been no heat in it; Lewis’s eyes had brightened until the warmth in them spilled over, and any amount of unintentional fire-breathing on Arthur’s part was worth it for that alone.

And just like then, the tap sputters twice before filling his cup with lukewarm water. Arthur hums tunelessly to himself as he waits— it keeps some of the shadows away, filling the empty room and curling a protective bubble around his hunched shoulders.

Outside, the rain surges; the heavy ache in his port responds to the change in pressure, blooming hot and inflamed under his skin. Arthur clenches his teeth as he rides it out, sets the glass down again before he can accidentally drop it.

How does Lewis feel about storms now? Is it better, now that he’s a ghost? Or does it just make things worse, sending bad memories spiraling into each other? At least he has Vivi, in their room on the other side of the apartment. If she can’t help, then Arthur doesn’t know _what_ can.

Another sharp throb sends his heartbeat pounding to the edges of his fingertips. Arthur bites his lip. Painkillers, painkillers— they’ve got ibuprofen around here somewhere, right?

It’s awkward, rooting around the medicine cabinet with only one hand, but Arthur makes it work. A year and one month of living down an arm is more than enough time to form a system; Arthur nudges a bottle of DayQuil aside, trapping the door between his cheek and his shoulder. Unopened gummy vitamins, Vivi’s special cramp recipe... _there._ In the very back, a bottle of Advil hovers, just out of reach.

Arthur sets his jaw. Alright, that’s fine— he can get creative. All he needs is a chair.

If it’s awkward shuffling through a bunch of jars with one arm, it’s even worse trying to drag the chair. Arthur’s molars grind together as he walks backwards, lifting it just enough off the floor so it doesn’t make a sound. His arm wobbles, threatening to send a leg scraping over kitchen tile in an ear-splitting screech.

_“C’mon,”_ he pants, setting it down to catch his breath. Against the roof, the steady rush of wind and water begins to taper off— a lull in the storm.

It gives him the strength to keep going. “Okay,” he puffs, looping his arm through the back of the chair. It leaves him hobbling, unbalanced, but there's less of a chance he’ll wake someone up (wake _Vivi_ up, Lewis can’t sleep anymore, and whose fault is that?) this way. “We got this, c’mon—”

From there, he props it against the counter. It gives him just enough of a boost to brush his fingertips against the bottle’s cap. Arthur leans forward, pushing for another inch. Just a little more— a bit further—

_Success._ His hand closes around the bottle. Arthur extracts his arm by fractions, lifting it over the other containers so he won’t disturb them. Then he drops back to the floor, grinning with rare triumph. Now he’s just gotta _open_ it—

“What the hell are you _doing?”_

The only thing that saves Arthur from shrieking is knowing he’ll wake up Vivi if he does. The bottle goes flying out of his hand as his legs send him stumbling backward, slamming hard into the edge of the counter. _“Fu—”_

Haloed in purple fire, Lewis stands— well, floats— in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. He’s dropped his human form; it’s hard to read expressions on a skull, but Arthur can hedge a solid bet on unimpressed.

It’s been a while since Lewis was impressed by him.

“L—” Arthur’s tongue locks up, right in time for a pang of clean, bright pain to burst along the inside of his port. What ends up coming out of his mouth is less of a noise than a single, strangled inhale, as his nerveless fingers rise to clutch his stump.

“Arthur?” Lewis’s voice now echoes right above his head. Arthur doesn’t respond, breathing raggedly as he waits for the pain to subside.

“H-hi,” he risks once he can talk again, looking up. The human disguise is back on— Lewis gives him a once-over, something unreadable in the dark sclera of his eyes.

“What are you doing?” It comes out less of an accusation this time.

“Uh.” Arthur jerks his head toward the fallen bottle of Advil. Is it not obvious? “That?”

Lewis follows his gaze. One eyebrow lifts, shooting up into purple hair. “What do you need a _whole bottle_ of Advil for?”

_I’m testing out a new stomach pump,_ Arthur bites down on the urge to say. “Not— not the whole thing, just like. Two, maybe?” _More like five._ “It’s for my— for my arm.”

What’s left of it. Arthur hunches in on himself, rubbing his fingers over familiar metal grooves. Lewis’s glowing eyes remind him of a microscope— like a bug trapped under glass, examined in minute detail.

Lewis’s other eyebrow joins the first, head panning from the bottle that’s still rolling on the floor to where Arthur’s fingers clutch his port. Then they dip, crinkling together in a way so shockingly familiar that Arthur has to blink tears out of his eyes.

A _year._ He’d searched for over a year, only to find Lewis dead and the blame laid squarely at Arthur’s feet. But Lewis is still _here—_ here enough to make that stupid thinking face when he wants to ask a question, but isn’t sure if it’s polite. Here enough to open his mouth, pause, and close it again, determined but hesitant in turns.

Sometimes he forgets that this Lewis and the old Lewis are the same person. Separated by a year of pain, hate, regret— that changes people. But at his core, it’s _still him._

The same Lewis who laughed at Arthur’s shitty attempts to cheer him up two years ago. The Lewis who made him and Vivi breakfast because he was the only one who knew how to cook. The same Lewis who just a month prior had lifted Arthur by the front of his shirt and tossed him off a cliff, only to catch him before he could fall further than three feet down.

“Your... arm,” Lewis finally says, drifting backward. In the past month, he’s stopped trying to act normal— standing on two feet like a human being was one of the first things to go. Floating, it seems, is more natural for him. “You— never told me how you lost it.”

Arthur shoots him an incredulous glance. “It’s kind of a touchy subject,” he mutters. With Lewis a safer distance away, Arthur bends to scoop up the bottle. Dammit, he’s really going to try and open this one handed, isn’t he? “Uh. I guess if you really wanna know, I can tell you.”

Lewis’s silence speaks for itself. Swallowing, Arthur turns back to the counter— sets the glass of water in a neat line with the pill bottle, stares down at what nicks and stains are still visible on the counter. Lewis’s domain, Lewis’s rules, they’d used to say. Before— well, _before._

“Back— uh, back at the. The cave—” Arthur’s lips twist. If he wants to open this lid, he might have to use his _teeth._ Maybe. He grips the cap, toggling ideas. “Um. Did... did anyone tell you about the thing in there?”

Lewis is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice carries a thoughtful cadence. “There was some sort of spirit in there, right? That’s why we went to— to investigate.”

“Right.” Arthur swallows through the lump lodged in his throat. “The, um.” _Fuck,_ he can’t do this. He can’t look at Lewis, but he can’t turn his back on him, either, so Arthur settles for staring at the floor, tapping the bottle cap in a faltering, irregular rhythm. It fills the spaces in his head, keeps his brain from blanking out completely.

He doesn’t like talking about this. But then, Arthur will do all sorts of things he doesn’t like, if it’s Lewis or Vivi doing the asking.

“The thing in there was a d— was a _demon,”_ he grits out. “It got a hold of me, and... well, you know the rest.” As if to remind him, his missing arm flares with phantom pain. _Ripping, tearing—_ Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, fingers groping for a limb that isn’t there anymore. “Dammit, I’m _sorry,_ Lew— I’m, I’m just—”

Skeletal hands land on the bottle in front of him. Arthur’s spine goes ramrod straight— when had Lewis gotten so close? Unnatural heat licks at his side as Lewis closes in.

“I’m sorry.” With a _pop,_ the bottle opens. Lewis sets it down next to the glass, moving back again. A rush of cold air fills the space he’d occupied.

Arthur shivers. “W-what?”

Lewis isn’t looking at him. “I said I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up, it’s a bad memory for— for _both_ of us—”

“Mystery ripped it off,” Arthur says, breathless, into the space between them.

Lewis’s head snaps back up, eyes flaring. “He _what?”_

The words are out now— Arthur can’t stop them even if he wants to. “He— it took over my arm, when it got me. Th-the demon. And Mystery— I guess he followed us up, he left Vivi at the bottom, and he— he had to do it, Lewis, the thing was _inside_ me, and I— I—”

A cold, hard edge meets the small of his back. When did he back up? Arthur breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth; counts to ten. Does it again, and again, until his body stops shaking and the nausea subsides.

“Arthur—” Lewis’s voice is low, careful. The kind of voice you’d use around a dangerous, scared animal. “You can stop. It’s o—“

“But I— I want to.” He doesn’t want to hear that it’s _okay._ Arthur brings a hand up to his mouth, stomach twisting into knots. “Fuck, I _want_ to, you deserve to know what happened— I just—”

_“Arthur._ Breathe.”

Arthur breathes. In his periphery, Lewis floats closer; not too close. Not close enough for Arthur to flinch. _God,_ they’re so messed up.

There’s a moment of— not silence, but something close, between them. Rain’s still pattering down on the roof; a car’s headlights strike through the window, throwing yellow lines against the wall. Lewis, cast in purple and shadow, looks down at his feet.

“I _want_ to talk about it,” Arthur breaks into the silence.

“Okay,” Lewis says. “But— maybe not right now. Later.”

Later? “But—”

_“Later,”_ Lewis repeats firmly. Like ripples in a pond, his human form spreads outward again; he gestures at the counter. “You should take those.”

Right. Painkillers— the entire reason he came out here. Arthur turns, then blinks, thrown.

“Did you open this?”

Lewis’s eyebrows wrinkle. “I opened it right in front of you.”

“Oh.” Arthur digs out a couple of pills. Then he digs out two more. “I— I wasn’t paying attention, I guess.” The laugh that bubbles out of his throat rings hollow.

“Yeah.” Lewis hesitates. “Does it— hurt?”

Considering he’s got four pain pills in his hand, yes. But admitting it... that reeks of weakness. It’s been over a year— he should know how to handle this by now. So why does it continue to blindside him?

Arthur takes in a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he says, so soft it’s swallowed up by the rain. “A— a lot, actually.”

He punctuates it by popping all four pills into his mouth and following it up with a swig of water. They weigh his tongue down like lead, coating his throat in ash as he swallows.

“Oh.” A pause. Then, with uncharacteristic timidity, Lewis pipes up again. “Hey, listen... I know we haven’t really been— been talking. And that’s... that’s on me. It’s been a month, and I’ve just— well. Look. I... I guess I’m not really in the place to hand out suggestions, but can I... try something? To help?”

It takes more self control than he’s willing to admit not to choke on his water. “Like what?” Arthur rasps, setting his glass down and turning to face Lewis head on. “What do you mean?”

“I just thought... I had an idea.” Lewis’s fingers twist on themselves. He’s _nervous—_ what the hell does he have to be nervous about? “You don’t have to. But I owe you an apology for... for not really trying to fix things, after I came back. So if you’ll let me—” he breaks off, but not before Arthur catches the undertone of hope threading through his voice.

Huh. Arthur opens his mouth, then closes it when nothing actually comes out.

Lewis waits.

He wants a lot of things, these days. For Lewis to be alive. For Vivi’s memory problems to melt away faster. To not tremble every time Mystery wanders into the room. What he wants— what he wants _most_ is to fix this. This— this gaping _canyon_ between them. He wants it to be fixed. And maybe... this is how they can start working toward common ground. A peace offering. Arthur clears his throat a few times— it’s like jogging the van’s transmission.

“Okay,” he manages after the third attempt. “I— okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes. Yeah. Let’s— whatever your plan is.” Fingers curling, Arthur steps away from the counter and offers Lewis a shaky smile. “Let’s try it.”

The great thing about Lewis, Arthur’s always thought, is that when it comes to taking action, he doesn’t hesitate. He’s kinetic energy in a bottle— in him burns a drive, a flame that pushes him to move, to act. And now’s no different than the hundreds, _thousands_ of times he’s acted before.

Lewis reaches out, across the rest of that aching gap, and pulls him into a hug.

_Oh._

_Oh,_ he’s _warm._

Lewis radiates heat like a hot water bottle. Arthur shudders once, arm frozen at his side for a brief eternity before coming up to slide around the small of Lewis’s back. Oh, this is—

He’s crying before it even hits him, that this is the first time he’s actually _hugged_ Lewis in over a year. God— _God_ he’s missed him so much.

“I’m sorry,” Lewis mumbles into the top of his head. Heavy fingers press against Arthur’s temple, carding through sleep-matted hair. “I’m so sorry. I missed you a lot too, Artie.”

Surrounded by ghost-fire, held up by syrupy warmth, Arthur finally, _finally_ lets himself collapse.

* * *

They don’t move until they’ve both cried it out. By the time Arthur gets a hold of himself, he’s utterly spent. Lewis doesn’t let go; since Arthur’s not inclined to ask him to, they stand for another minute and a half before Arthur’s knees threaten to buckle.

It’s almost dawn— he’s been up for hours, trying to stave off the ache in his port. Trying to get some sleep. Exhaustion clings to his very bones.

Lewis loosens his hold by a fraction. “Wanna move to the couch?” He asks, craning his neck to peer down at Arthur.

Arthur’s too tired to verbalize a response, so he settles for a weary nod.

Lewis tugs him back through the hallway, ushering him to the couch. They end up with Arthur on top of him, his head tucked under Lewis’s chin. It’s warm, here. It’s— nice. Safe.

“How’s your arm?” Lewis asks him, quiet. No rain between the syllables— the storm’s passed for now.

Arthur cracks an eye open. “Good,” he says. “Better.” A beat. “Thanks.”

It doesn’t sound like much, but he pushes as much sincerity as he can into the word.

Lewis seems to understand. A hand runs through his hair again, heavy where it rests on the crown before smoothing back down his neck. “Glad it worked,” he says. There’s a hint of a smile in his voice. “You should get some sleep.”

Arthur hums, deep in his throat. Something’s thumping a steady, gentle rhythm against his cheek.

Guided by that beat, Arthur slips into the most restful, dreamless sleep he’s had since Lewis died.

Something rouses him an indeterminable time later. He’s not quite awake— sleep still clings to him, pressing down with careful fingers.

The voice above him has an awed cast to it. “Oh. My. _God.”_

A shushing noise. “Don’t wake him up,” someone else admonishes.

Vivi’s volume drops below a whisper. “Sorry, sorry, I just— wow. I don’t think I’ve seen him actually _sleep_ since— well. You know.”

“Yeah.”

A beat. “That looks super comfortable. How do I cash in on this?”

He’s still half asleep, which is why Arthur flings out his hand to drag Vivi down with him without a hint of self-consciousness. She lets out a startled _oomph,_ landing on top of them both.

“Go t’ sleep,” he mutters into Lewis’s chest, curling his arm around her shoulders. They’re all here— the heavy weight settling across his legs tells him Mystery’s joined them as well, and for once the anxiety that zings through him is too far away to take hold.

There’s an amused snort. “Guess that answers my question. Goodnight, Artie.”

Two weights wrap over his back— Arthur sighs, and lets warm familiarity sweep him back into darkness.

For the first time in a long time, they’re all here.

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur’s a bundle of emotion and nerves and hopefully the complicated feelings everyone has came across alright.
> 
> Title once again lifted from a City and Colour song, Day Old Hate.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr at hashbrownwrites!


End file.
